The Greatest Archmage To Have Ever Lived [OP MC, LitRPG]

"I'll be bringing you to the administrative offices first," Vennor said as he led them through. "They'll handle the formal arrangements for your audience with His Majesty. Shouldn't take too long, given the circumstances."

He gestured vaguely back toward the checkpoint, where guards were still dealing with the aftermath of the manticore incident.

The streets beyond the gates teemed with activity despite the late hour. Lanterns hung from posts and building facades, casting warm pools of light that pushed back the darkness. Merchants still manned their stalls, calling out final prices for the day's remaining goods. The smell of grilled meat—or something approximating meat—wafted through the air, mingling with incense, smoke and the peculiar scent of desert flowers Sael couldn't name. Which, to be honest, was bothering him a little. What were those desert flowers named anyway? He'd have to ask later.

Robin's ears swiveled constantly, tracking sounds from every direction. His tail swept low, the tip twitching occasionally as he took in the sights. Ilsa walked with her usual quiet composure and Orion seemed more relaxed, his gaze lingering on the various food stalls they passed.

Was he perhaps hungry?

The thought arrived with a small pang of guilt. It was true that they hadn't eaten since their departure from Orlys. Sael's own lack of need for sustenance made it easy to forget that others didn't share that particular convenience. He'd been so focused on reaching the capital, on the audience with the Dragon King, on the various complications that had arisen, that he hadn't considered something as basic as whether his companions had eaten.

Perhaps he should treat them to something later. Yes, that seemed like a good plan.

To their left, a crowd had gathered around a street performer. A man sat cross-legged on a woven mat, a wooden flute pressed to his lips. Before him, a serpent as thick as Sael's arm rose from a basket, swaying to the music. Its scales caught the lantern light, shimmering between gold and green. The crowd watched with rapt attention—no children, Sael noticed. Teenagers and adults, but no young children outside at this hour.

"Is it always like this?" Sael asked.

Vennor glanced back at him. "Hmm? Oh, you mean the activity?" He shook his head. "Not quite this lively, no. We're preparing for the fifth anniversary of the Dragon King's conquest. Ten days from now. The city gets... festive around this time."

"I see."

"Merchants come from all over the kingdom to set up for the celebration. Food vendors, entertainers, craftsmen." Vennor gestured toward a stall where a woman was arranging decorative banners painted with dragons. "His Majesty allows pretty much anyone to participate, so long as they follow the rules. No selling spoiled goods, no cheating customers, that sort of thing. Guards enforce it strictly during the festival period."

They passed another food stall where something that looked disturbingly like scorpions the size of dinner plates sizzled on a grill. The vendor was turning them, their shells crackling in the heat.

Robin's nose twitched. "Those smell better than they have any right to," he muttered.

Orion made a considering noise. "I wonder what they taste like."

"Like scorpion, I imagine," Ilsa said.

"That's not helpful."

Hmm. Perhaps they would appreciate some of that. Sael thought, cataloguing the stalls for later.

Further down, another vendor had set up a large pot over a fire, something boiling inside that Sael couldn't quite identify from this distance. The steam rising from it carried a pungent, mineral smell.

A group of guards stood near one of the grills, waiting for their order. Their conversation was loud and punctuated by laughter. One of them was in the middle of a story that involved dramatic hand gestures and what seemed to be an impression of someone else. His companions were grinning.

It was, Sael had to admit, actually quite nice.

He'd expected... something different. A kingdom ruled by a dragon, where assassins were apparently allowed to enter specifically so the king could deal with them personally, where shadows infiltrated during moments of chaos, that kingdom should have felt oppressive. Tense. Instead, it felt almost normal. People going about their lives, preparing for a celebration, enjoying the evening.

Strange didn't quite cover it.

They passed a tea house where patrons sat at outdoor tables, steam rising from clay cups. The lighting here was softer, provided by paper lanterns that cast everything in warm amber tones. Most of the patrons looked like they'd stopped in after a long day of work; tired but content, conversation flowing easily.

A group of teenagers loitered near the entrance, talking amongst themselves with the particular brand of animated energy that only the young seemed to possess at this time of night.

Five of them. Three boys, two girls. The tallest boy was gesturing wildly as he recounted some story, his hands painting pictures in the air. His companions laughed, one of the girls shoving him lightly in response to whatever he'd said. Sael observed them peripherally as his group drew closer.

Then one of them moved.

A boy, shorter than the storyteller but quicker. His hand came toward Sael with a speed that suggested practice. Perhaps even a skill—something to enhance dexterity or sleight of hand. Swift enough that most people wouldn't have noticed until it was too late. The motion was smooth, calculated, disguised within the casual movement of someone shifting their weight.

But Sael's Perception was not that of most people.

Time didn't actually slow. That would require manipulation of temporal forces beyond what passive observation could provide. But the effect felt similar: his mind processing information faster than the physical world moved, analyzing the trajectory of that approaching hand, the angle, the intent. The boy's fingers were already curling slightly, positioned to grab rather than greet. His eyes weren't on Sael's face but on his belt, where coin pouches typically hung.

What was he doing exactly?

Greeting seemed unlikely. You didn't approach a stranger from behind and to the side for a friendly handshake. You certainly didn't do it with that particular furtive quality to your movement, that calculated casualness designed to mask purpose.

Pickpocketing, then?

That was the obvious conclusion. The boy had seen an obvious traveler being escorted by a guard captain—someone who might have coin worth stealing—and decided to try his luck while his target was distracted by the sights and sounds of the street.

But Sael decided to believe in the more charitable interpretation.

Perhaps there was an entirely innocent explanation for why this teenager's hand was currently arcing through the air toward Sael's belt pouch with what appeared to be larcenous intent.

He turned and caught the boy's hand in his own.

"Hello," Sael said, looking directly into the teenager's eyes.

The boy's face went through several expressions in rapid succession. Surprise, confusion, then outright panic.

His eyes were wide. Very wide. As if he had not anticipated this outcome and was currently recalculating every decision that had led him to this moment. His mouth opened slightly, no sound emerging. The hand in Sael's grip twitched once, an aborted attempt to pull away that died the moment it began.

Sael continued to hold his hand. Not tightly. Just firmly enough to make it clear that releasing it would be Sael's choice, not the boy's.

The boy's friends had gone silent. The storyteller's animated gestures had frozen mid-motion. Everyone was staring, their laughter dying in their throats as they processed what was happening. One of the girls took a half-step forward, her expression shifting toward concern, but she didn't seem to know what to do.

"Hello," Sael repeated, his tone pleasant.